


Avoidance

by acervate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, john is def in love, mary is mad jealous, sherlock loves john with all his heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acervate/pseuds/acervate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is kidnapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avoidance

inspired by this post [x](http://johnstached.tumblr.com/post/79618308653/you-know-how-i-want-the-johnlock-kiss-to-happen)

* * *

 

It was odd how the absence of someone could fill a room.

  
John sighed as he fiddled with the remote, bumping it against his palm a few times to see if he could get it to work. He was painfully bored, the emptiness of the flat droning on. Sherlock was out on a case, and a long one at that. He had said that he wouldn't be back for a few hours, which had turned into a day, then two, and now three, without so much as a text saying that he would be gone longer than planned. John felt rather annoyed, at both himself and Sherlock. He wouldn't stop thinking clingy thoughts, but it was Sherlock's fault for causing them. He was alone, and for godsakes he downright hated it.  
  
It had been nearly half a year since he'd moved back in with Sherlock, having divorced Mary soon after their daughter was born. John really had loved her, but the impact of knowing that she had led a secret life before meeting him that had resulted in the near loss of his best friend when the secret came out? There was no way he could share his life with her after that.  
  
Mary had refused to let John be part of raising their daughter, saying that it was his own choice to leave and that he had to deal with the consequences. They ended up coming to an agreement that she was all Mary's responsibility, and whatever choices she made were final. It killed John not to he able to raise a child that was his own, but he knew that it was for the best. He had planned on going back to Baker Street, and he knew that his life there had no room for a baby.  
  
But now as he sat alone, watching dull shows and wishing for company, John thought if maybe he had made the wrong choice.  
  
No, he hadn't. She had tried to kill Sherlock. Letting her leave his life was the best and only choice. John's face burned in shame as he quickly banished the previous thoughts and resigned himself to making tea.  
  
As he walked to the kitchen, his phone rang in his pocket. John fished it out and was confused to see Lestrade's number on the screen. It was still early and he would definitely be working. What could he want?  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"John." Lestrade's voice was strained and worried, startling John. He gripped the phone tighter.  
  
"Greg? What's wrong?"  
  
"Sherlock. Where is he?"  
  
John shook his head. "He's on a case. Has something happened?"  
  
Greg swore indistinctly, frazzling John further. What was going on?  
  
"Greg. What's happened?"  
  
"Mycroft called me and said that Sherlock's phone was found. He wasn't with it. We can't find him John."  
  
"Maybe it's for the case? He could be working undercover!" John said, voice becoming hoarse. His heart hammered in his chest and worry coursed through his veins.  
  
"John, he solved the case. I gave it to him, he gave it back and now the files are on my desk. Mycroft said that his phone was found a few blocks away. He must have been heading home and was picked up or something."  
  
John leaned against the doorway, putting his forehead on the cool wood. His chest felt tight and constricted and his head spun. He was heading home--when? How long had he been missing without John knowing?  
  
"Greg," John schooled his voice into calmness. "When? When did he solve it?"  
  
"On Tuesday. John, can you come down here? We're going to need you."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, okay, I'll be there. Okay." John brought the phone away from his ear and terminated the call. He blew out a breath and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to still his shuddering hands and pounding heart. The room suddenly seemed too small, even just for him.  


* * *

  
A muffled groan filled the frigid concrete room as Sherlock shifted awake. Coldness seeped into his side, and his head was groggy and unwilling to work properly as he tried to work out where he was. No noise, apart from himself. Alone then. He tried to work out more--he could deduce someone's love life based on the state of their clothing, for godsakes-- but his brain was as stubborn as he was, and refused to take note of anything else around him.  
  
Perhaps his inability was born from being unconscious  for such a long time. He remembered waking a few times before and each time being administered with some sort of sedative that lulled him back into sleep. He had been blindfolded all those times; why not now?  
  
He fiddled with the rope on his wrists, trying to find some sort of leeway. No chance, and he guessed an even smaller chance with the rope around his ankles. He refrained from letting out a frustrated sigh.  
  
It was around a lifetime before the sound of a door swinging open entertained his presence.  
  
He squinted as bright light poured in, creating a silhouette of his captor. It was a female of average height, size...10? 12? Not enough to draw any conclusions. Sherlock's eyes were drawn into slits as he tried to brave the harsh light. The door was closed as she stepped in and for a moment, it was computers darkness.  
  
A light bulb flickered to life above him, its chain swinging as it slid from his captor's hand. Sherlock's eyes widened and he let out a weak gasp as her identity screamed in his mind.  
  
Mary smiled as Sherlock writhed slightly on the floor, his mouth trying to say her name. He looked grimy and dirty lying on the concrete floor. It filled her with happiness.  
  
"Hello, Sherlock. Nice to see you again." Sherlock swallowed, his eyes still wide. Mary's appearance was nearly the same as it had been when he'd last seen her, minus the weight gained during her pregnancy. She was Mary Morstan, no longer carrying John's surname instead of her own.  
  
"Look at you Sherlock. Trying to figure out everything. Do you want to help me again? We both know how well that went." she spat the final sentence with a hateful voice. "It's your fault. John left me for you."  
  
Sherlock was thankful for the gag in that moment, knowing fully that if he had been able to talk, he would've habitually rebutted her false standby with the correct one. John hadn't left her for him, even if he allowed himself to pretend so. John simply couldn't handle carrying that sort of baggage with her and fell back on Plan B.  
  
"I'm going to kill you. You knew that, didn't you?" Mary looked almost sad for a moment, but scowled all the same. Sherlock nodded slightly. His stomach clenched tightly, trying to digest food that wasn't there.  
  
"I'm going to leave you here. You'll die of cold, hunger, thirst. It's going to hurt Sherlock, and it will last." Mary smiled bitterly. "You're going to feel pain the same as I did."  
  
She crouched down and gave one sharp cheekbone a small pat. "Goodbye Sherlock. John probably won't find you until you've been dead a few days, but that won't really matter. You should've died after you jumped from that building. I would've still had John." her voice went soft at the end and Sherlock watched as Mary's eyes unfocused sadly. She quickly zoned back in on him again, then withdrew something from her pocket. Sherlock tried to wiggle away when he saw that it was a syringe, but knew his efforts were futile. It sunk into his leg and he hissed in pain as she withdrew the needle sharply. Almost immediately, he could feel his mind shutting off, his eye's growing heavy. As Sherlock's head dropped to the ground, a single name passed through his mind.  
  
 _John._  


* * *

  
"Of course he has enemies! The problem is, he probably has so many of them we'd never be able to sort through them all!" Lestrade leaned back in his chair with a heavy groan and rubbed at his eyes. John clenched his fists on the wood of Greg's desk and shook his head.  
  
"No, they have to really know him. They have to know what way he takes to get to the flat from here, why he went that way--the specifics!"  
  
"What specifics are there? We've tried everything!"  
  
"You couldn't of! There has to be more!" John said, his voice gaining a pleading edge. They just had to have something, anything.  
  
"We've tried to trace the tires, ask anybody who might have seen anything, everything. He was grabbed at what might be the only dark corner in Mycroft's CCTV camera field. John, we might not-"  
  
"Don't." John glared at Lestrade and inhaled. "Do not finish that sentence." He plopped down in a chair in front of the desk and shook his head. They were both silent, concern and worry clogging the air and filling John's lungs.  
  
Suddenly, he looked up. "Sherlock didn't take a cab the entire way home. He got out. He only gets out if he's stopping for dinner. Whoever took him must know the exact restaurant that he stops at after solving a case."  
  
"What restaurant is it?" Lestrade asked. "Someone who eats there might be our guy."  
  
"I don't know the name. It's that one where he says he can predict the fortunes in the cookies." John nodded when he saw understanding dawn in Greg's eyes. He rose from the chair and began to pace, trying to think.  
  
"But he never actually eats there. He only gets a bag of food and comes back to the flat. Sherlock would've known if anybody there had it out for him. It can't be someone who eats there."  
  
"Then what?!" Greg said, his voice rising. "It's one step forward and two steps back!"  
  
"But it isn't!" John told him. "The person would've had to have known that after going in, he would've been heading to the flat. No one can know that unless they're close to him. He doesn't let people get close to him." John licked his lips nervously. He could visualize everybody that would've known Sherlock that well being written off, narrowed down until a conclusion slammed into him like a ton of bricks.  
  
John struggled to swallow, and tried to convince himself otherwise. It couldn't be her. But, it _actually_ could.  
  
"Greg," John said, voice cracking. "Mary knew him that well."

* * *

 

Perhaps if he had pressed charges the first time she'd tried to kill him, this could have all been avoided.

  
Sherlock found that when one was all alone in the dark for days on end, you had a lot of time to think. He paced about the tiny room, his head nearly touching the ceiling as he thought.  
  
What the weather like? How Scotland Yard and John were dealing with his disappearance? Had Mycroft contacted Lestrade or John first? How was John holding up and what was he doing?  
  
To be honest, even though he had no one to be honest with, he mostly thought about John.  
  
Having a thought of him in his mind had a tranquil, calming effect though he didn't really need one. Sure, it was really starting to set in that he was going to die here alone while his body shut down and destroyed itself, but that didn't mean he was scared. He wasn't. Really.  
  
At least Mary had some compassion in her. Sherlock had awoken to find his feet unbound, and his hands now in front of him rather than behind. Maybe it was like a small thank you for driving John into her arms the first time he died.  
  
He would've died on three occasions by the time this was over. Technically, he hadn't died after jumping off St. Barts, but for three years only one person had known almost every whereabout, so it still counted.  
  
Sherlock wondered what it would've been like if he had been able to bring himself to contact John. He had been prepared to so many time. Tiny notes written on dirty napkins and long letters written on some of the finest stationary had been in his pockets at first, until he had to discard of his coat and the words he could never bring himself to say.  
  
He could say them now. They'd be muffled like always, but at least they had left his mouth. Sherlock stopped his nervous pacing and considered.  
  
He decided to lay down because pacing burnt too much energy.  


* * *

John was forced to go home after spending nearly the entire night and early morning at Scotland Yard. Lestrade gave him a tight smile and told him to get some rest. John stayed awake the entire time, adrenaline too high to allow sleep. He sat in his chair, and looked at Sherlock's. He thought about how it might remain empty from now on and was nearly sick.  
  
After suggesting that Mary might have something to do with this situation, Lestrade sent people off to get all the information they could about her. John learned that she had all but fallen off the face of the Earth. No one; not even Mycroft's most intelligent forces; could dig up anything about her. John was really starting to regret ever having met and married a former assassin.  
  
He sat alone until Mrs. Hudson came up and asked what all the ruckus last night had been about. John told her and kept his demeanor calm and cool. There was no reason to panic like she was. Sherlock would get out of this. He would make it out, get a cab and walk up the stairs into the flat. He had died twice. Surely he was an expert at surviving these kinds of things by now.  
  
After a few hours, Mrs. Hudson invited John down for dinner and he accepted. As much as being along would help him think this through more and maybe come up with the right answer, John didn't really want to be alone. He didn't like the way the flat seemed to close in on him as the absence of Sherlock's violin, experiments and general noises became more evident.

* * *

  
It took awhile, but he was able to get the gag out of his mouth. His jaw was sore and nearly numb. He took a nap and waited for it to feel better.  
  
Then Sherlock screamed. He screamed and yelled until his throat hurt and his head spun at the impact of using his dwindling energy. He screamed some more after that, trying to muster any attention from the outside. He made the muscles around his jaw and mouth sore again with  his screaming and listened as the sound reverberated against the stone walls and filled his ears with an animal like cry of desperation. After nearly passing out, Sherlock found that the light headedness was winning out on trying to save himself. He'd try again in a little while; he just needed to save up some energy.  
  
When Mary had said that he would die from cold, hunger and thirst, she hadn't been lying. She'd taken away his coat and scarf and presumably destroyed them. Pity, he quite liked that coat.  
  
Sherlock was cursing his defiance for daily calorie intake levels by the fourth day. His stomach growled and clenched and heaved as he curled up into a ball to ward off the hunger pains. His throat was dry and scratchy as the dust and dander of the room filled it. The walls were really quite spectacularly constructed. Not a single drip of water anywhere, not even by the door. He had never known a thirst like this. With a dry mouth and a barren throat, every other thought was of how good a cup of tea would be at that very moment.  
  
Sherlock threw himself against the door with as much force as he could muster. He'd tried to pick the lock, but it was no use. The door remained and he was stuck here. The outcome of this was really beginning to set in. Sherlock knew that he was too active for the intake of nutrients he gave his body. He never drank enough, he would've been on the brink of common minor dehydration before this. He was going to die and it would be slow, and there was nothing he could to stop it.  
  
Sherlock bellowed as loud as possible, punching and banging on the door until his knuckled bled and his hands bruised. He couldn't do this. He couldn't take this. His death was supposed to be quick, by the bullet of a gun or the snap of his neck.  
  
"JOHN!! PLEASE SOMEONE!! SOMEONE HELP!" the animalistic nature of his cries drove it further into his mind until Sherlock only had the power to sink down on the floor in the pitch black room with his ragged breathing filling it.  
  
Sherlock wanted to stop thinking. It was all lovely the first day, but by now, he could only think of everything he had wanted to do, crimes he wanted to solve, things he had longed to say. He had tried so many times to make his eyes say the words his mouth could not. John never noticed, only ever going by the sounds that fell from Sherlock's lips. He had said that he was married to his work, and since he never explicitly said anything different, it had become like a barrier between them. Always the best of friends, never, never, _never_ the beginning of lovers.  
  
Sherlock craved John like no other. He had abstained from sex and the like, finding it rather tedious and messy. But with John, his nerves were on fire, and his sensory overloaded every time they touched. His mind was filled to the brim with thoughts he hoped would never come to public attention if he wanted to remain in good taste. John was like a ray of sunlight in his life, keeping him tethered and right.  
  
Sherlock exhaled slowly and shook his head. John would never know this. He couldn't know this. John was a straight man with a best friend who didn't care about sex and love and that's how it had to remain. They were Holmes and Watson, soon to be only the latter.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and curled up a bit tighter, wishing that his body would stop shaking from the cold and that this would end quickly.

* * *

  
When the call came, it was two in the morning and John had just managed an hour or fitfully rest. The shrill ring of his phone immediately woke him and he scrambled to grab the device. In the dark of his room, the tiny screen burnt his eyes as he blearily answered the call.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"John. We've got him." Lestrade sounded breathless, and the wail of the sirens almost overpowered his voice. John blinked a few times, rapidly sitting up  
  
"You found him?"  
  
"John, you've gotta get down here-"  
  
"I'll be right there." Lestrade told him the address, John ended the call and threw down his phone, a grin spreading across his face. They had Sherlock. He was okay. God yes!  
  
John dressed quickly and hurried down the stairs of the flat, joy ripping through his body. They found Sherlock, he was okay, he was alive! It had been close to 5 days since he went missing, and it felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He managed to find a cab, even as early as it was, and shot off the address. They were off then, only minutes between him and Sherlock.  
  
5 days. John sat back against the seat, trying to calm himself. Even if Mary had left him, that would've taken plenty out of him. He could've easily died from exposure. John shuddered at the thought.  
  
But, what if she hadn't left him? Mary hadn't always been the compassionate soul she presented herself to be. She could've tortured him, seriously hurt him. He could still be in danger of dying.  
  
John shook his head. No, Sherlock was fine. He'd get to the scene and might now be able to talk to him, but he wouldn't go another second without seeing him.  
  
The drive seemed to drag on and on, despite there being almost no cars on the road. Finally, the cab pulled up near the scene. Police tape had blocked off an old stone building and the surrounding area, and sirens flashed in the air. John paid and quickly got out, hurrying off underneath the tape and into the scene. His eyes darted around, flashing past people that weren't him until they locked onto the open end of an ambulance.  
  
Sherlock sat there, eyes looking at the worn pavement as the early morning wind tried to ruffle at his wilted, greasy curls.  He had a shock blanket around his shoulders, the bright orange color making his complexion look more pasty than normal. His face was dirty and had dried blood on it, but he was still the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.  
  
John's feet were moving before he registered them doing so, moving faster than his heart which beat against his rib cage and threatened to break out. His lungs couldn't draw in air even as he reached Sherlock, and his hands were grasping at his face, feeling the sharp cheekbones and pale skin.  
  
"Sherlock, oh god Sherlock-"  
  
"John." Sherlock's voice cracked when he said his name, and the relief and tired happiness was tangible and filled the air around them. John choked out a laugh and put his forehead against Sherlock's, shutting out the rest of the world and forming a bubble around them.  
  
"Oh god, I thought I had lost you again. I thought she had succeeded this time."  
  
Sherlock's wiry fingers curled around John's wrist and gripped tightly as he smiled slightly.  
  
"I'm here John, I'm okay. It's all okay."  
  
John swallowed painfully, feeling his throat closing as tears welled. Sherlock was here, he was safe. He pulled back and stared into his eyes, looking at the swirling hues that no one description could fill and felt his heart be ripped out and still be repaired as he saw tears there as well.  
  
When John kissed him, the whole world shut down. Everything went quiet, until it was just them, here and together. Sherlock returned the kiss gently, exhaling a warm breath on John's face when he pulled back. John placed kisses on the corners of Sherlock's mouth, on his cheeks, temples and forehead, trying to douse him in the pent up emotions that had wrecked havoc the entire time he'd known him.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"I'm not saying anything, John."  
  
"I know." John nodded. "Just shut up."  
  
"Okay." Sherlock said, and for some reason it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.  
  
"I love you. God, I love you so fucking much." John kissed him again. "I should've done this so long ago. Sherlock-"  
  
"I love you too, John." Sherlock gave him the lopsided grin that had been reserved for him and him only since the first day they met. John had a sense of Déjà vu, like this entire thing had happened before.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Have we already been through this?" John asked, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. Sherlock grinned again and shook his head.  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay." John laughed and he kissed the crinkles at Sherlock's eyes.


End file.
